


ajcrowley's vision board for hearth & home

by menocchio



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Comfort Food, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Other, Pining, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menocchio/pseuds/menocchio
Summary: Pinterest came around a few thousand years too late to be useful, so Crowley mostly made do with decorating from memory.





	ajcrowley's vision board for hearth & home

**598 B.C. **

“Ooh, I like that,” said Aziraphale fervently.

He darted an uncertain glance at Crowley, as if worried his opponent might nip off to tattle. He added hastily, “It doesn't compare to God's work, naturally, but as a – a _homage_ , you know, to the original, it's quite, well, isn't it – ?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, tilting his head and considering. “It's a bit all right.”

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were resplendent and overflowing with the bounty of the natural world. The trees were terraced according to height and leaf type, leading to waterfall effect of green, dappled here and there with flashes of bright flowers. Massive pillars tessellated out from the center, laden with sumptuous shrubs and climbing vines. Plants had been imported from the farthest reaches of the known world – known to the locals, at any rate – to create a stunning visual feast, a reticulated celebration of the incredible variety and splendor of the realm.

It really was all quite clever.

“I like that ficus,” admitted Crowley, folding his arms and nodding to nearby said ficus.

“The fruit is _delicious_ ,” Aziraphale put in, hands fluttering in assurance.

They watched a massive red and yellow bird heave off a cypress and make a slow trek across the sky. The sun was setting, and the golden hue of its angled beams deepened the mosaic effect of the garden's palette and warmed the pale curls atop the angel's head.

Crowley revised his opinion: he liked this better than God's garden. It was bold. It had vision and moxie. How magnificently rebellious of the humans, to dare to create something beautiful.

“The pistachios will be in season in a few months' time. We really must pay another visit for that,” said Aziraphale, before coming back to himself and who, or specifically _what_ , he was addressing. He blinked hard, mouth wavering.

Before he could injured himself on a retraction, Crowley decided to offer him an easy out.

“Perhaps we'll find the time, perhaps not. Lot of thwarting to be doing around then.” He hitched his hip casually against a pillar. “That's the busy season, after all. You know what Nebuchadnezzar gets like in Elul.”

The barely-born grimace transformed into a relieved smile, and Aziraphale's eyes brightened. “Right, the busy season. Lots of thwarting. Maybe we'll find the time, maybe not.”

By mutual unspoken agreement, they turned back to the gardens and enjoyed the sight, and perhaps the company, for a few minutes longer.

  


** 2 A.A. **

“It says here,” Aziraphale said, peering at the small plastic tab Crowley had discarded for a _reason_ , “it says here that pistachios grow best in Mediterranean climes. I haven't any idea how you grew that from a seed, I mean _really_.”

Crowley gave up wrestling with the massive tree pot for a moment and uncurled his back so he could cast a withering look at his companion, who was sitting upright on the chaise lounge. No one in the history of the planet had ever defied a piece of furniture more. And yet he looked perfectly comfortable, as was his way.

“I'm not going to take gardening advice from a mass-printed label, angel. The people who make those things just don't know what they're talking about when it comes to dealing with plants. You have to take a firm hand or they'll run all over you.” Crowley patted the slim trunk of the sapling and felt its minute trembling under his palm with deep satisfaction. “This tree will produce pistachios if it knows what's good for it.”

“As ever, I bow to your superior expertise in all horticultural matters.” Aziraphale disappeared the label with a careless flick of his fingers. He squinted across the patio at Crowley with a curious smile. “Why were you so insistent on the pistachio tree? You never did say.”

Crowley avoided his eyes, a well-practiced move aided by his sunglasses. “Oh, I think you mentioned liking them, at some point.”

  


** Yongle 19 (1421 C.E.) **

“What are you doing here?” Crowley whispered irritably. “I thought we agreed I was handling this one.”

Aziraphale's fledgling smile suffered a quick death. He looked almost disappointed, like he'd expected Crowley to greet him with pleasure.

Then he murmured, “You're doing that wrong.”

“What?” Crowley practically snarled.

Aziraphale muttered through pursed lips, a poor attempt at discretion, “The salute. You're doing it wrong. Fairly sure it's supposed to be lower, with your palms – ”

“I know what I'm doing, angel.” He dropped his arms and took his place beside his counterpart against the patterned wall. When a few nearby courtiers looked their way, he pressed against their minds until they mysteriously found something of grave interest elsewhere in the grand hall.

Aziraphale gave him a nervous sidelong look. “I'm sorry. I couldn't stop thinking about you here all alone, and what would happen if you – ”

“If I what?” He narrowed his eyes, little good it did behind his shades. Lest his displeasure go unnoticed, he also bared his teeth a little. “Go on. Say it.”

“If this was a trick,” exclaimed Aziraphale, throwing his hands up like Crowley was being the unreasonable one. “If you skipped off to Beijing, thinking me a fool _, oh that Aziraphale! So trusting, the ninny_ , and then proceeded to – sow the seeds of discord without any of the, you know, seeds of – of love, or what have you.”

For someone whose job it was to sow seeds of love-or-what-have-you, Aziraphale was always impossibly vague about describing them. He could barely broach the subject without getting tongue-tied and awkward, which made for difficult collaboration. Honestly, the conditions Crowley had to deal with, it wasn't fair.

It was early days in the Arrangement, and they had some kinks to work out. They needed to work on their communication. And trust, clearly.

A dazzling ceremony was taking place around them – a farewell feast held in honor of Zheng He's third voyage to Africa. Delegations from all over China had journeyed to the new capital to pay respects to the emperor and gawk at the dashing eunuch. There was a new spectacle every few feet and Crowley was stuck being distracted from all of it because of one stubborn Principality.

“Well, this is a bit silly, isn't it,” Crowley said. “Us both being here. Didn't save any trouble at all.”

Aziraphale shifted on his feet and looked away. “Guess not.”

The angel still looked a little wretched, which also wasn't fair. He wasn't the one being treated with undeserved suspicion. He wasn't the one put in the embarrassing position of having planned elaborate machinations for spreading goodwill and peace only for his partner to come sniffing around before he could prove himself.

Still: Crowley found he couldn't stand the depressed expression on his face. He elbowed him discreetly and said, “So long as you're here, I heard they have an excellent wine available at this thing.”

Aziraphale checked Crowley's expression guardedly and tentative smile grew. “I do see some beautiful enameled wine cups to drink it with.”

In the ensuing merriment and drinking, they accidentally stowed away on the flagship of Zheng He's fleet, but it was worth it.

  


** 2 A.A. **

Crowley's head rose and fell gently with his pillow. He swished the latest mouthful of wine around his mouth before swallowing. He smacked his lips. “This – what is this we're drinking? Not our usual fare, is it.”

“Plum wine,” said the angel attached to his pillow. Aziraphale struggled to sit up to reach for the bottle, but with Crowley's head on his stomach, it was an impossible feat. Would've required a little miracling for sure, and he was clearly not in the mood. “Do you like it?”

Crowley liked just about everything at the moment. “Oh, sure.”

Above him, Aziraphale finished off his own wine and turned the empty cup over in his hands, studying it with all the hearty incapacity of the extremely inebriated. “Where did you pick up these cups, by the way? The porcelain is simply – please forgive the parlance, old boy – simply divine.”

Crowley turned his head, mildly reveling in the brush of the waistcoat's velvet against his cheek. “Oh, out East,” he said vaguely, and let his eyes drift closed. A moment later he felt his sunglasses lift delicately from his face, and then he was fast asleep.

  


** 1755 A.D. **

Lisbon was a splendid city to walk through in the evenings.

They'd met by chance, as agreed upon, in the late afternoon the day before the Feast of All Saints, just down from the royal opera house. A corner market nearby happened to make fabulous rissóis, which they sat and supped upon while discussing the show they were about to see. Afterwards, there was just enough time to take a stroll past the intricate azulejo facades lining the piazza.

“Fantastic detailing,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah, the colors are all right,” said Crowley, trying not to yawn.

He'd travelled for the better part of a week to get here in time to bump into the angel, and while his exquisite infernal form was naturally resistant to all mortal weaknesses, he could also do with a short kip before the show. He wanted nothing more than to sit beside the wharf, maybe lean against the angel – he was soft enough, after all – and close his eyes for a while. 

He glanced surreptitiously at Aziraphale, who was gazing at the tiles with beatific rapture. He didn't see what the big deal was, himself, but if the angel really liked it that much, he could walk on a little while longer.

“Pity about tomorrow's earthquake,” Crowley said after a while.

Aziraphale sighed. “Isn't it just?”

  


** 2 A.A. **

Aziraphale studied the tile for an unnervingly long time, long enough for Crowley to prod, impatience masking nerves, “Well, what? Don't like it?”

A hand wandered out to press his arm. “No, no, my dear. I love it. It's beautiful.”

“It's not too much?” Perhaps having a grand Manueline mosaic was a bit overwrought for a kitchen sink backsplash.

“It's our home,” Aziraphale said firmly. “And we may decorate it as we like. And I _like_ this.” He tilted his head, eyes growing unfocused and distant. “It looks so familiar.”

“Lisbon,” Crowley supplied. “We caught a showing of _Le nozze contrastate_ before the city was destroyed – ”

“Ah, that's right.” The angel's face creased back into a smile. “That was a lovely night, wasn't it? Good show, good company, good food – but the local seafood industry really took a turn for the worse after that, poor things.”

“Tsunamis will do that,” Crowley said, distracted.

He tried not to preen too much at the _good company_ remark, because really – he could elicit better than that on a random Tuesday, these days. But the _our home_ was a little harder to shake off; it lingered in his mind, repeated itself in moments of quiet. Crowley had been on the earth for over 6000 years, but he never really had a home before.

  


** 1971 A.D. **

“Hallo, angel,” Crowley called as he swung through the door of the bookshop.

A very prim, nebbish fellow was standing near the Samuel Richardson shelf. He took one cursory glance at Crowley's cunning facial hair and dark duds and blanched. Seconds later the shop door was waving open again after his departing figure, and Crowley experienced that delicious frisson of satisfaction one can only feel when doing a friend a solid.

Served the man right for thinking he could peruse Samuel Richardson in Soho. The nerve on some of these humans; had they no decency?

“Has he gone?” Aziraphale stuck his head out from around a tower of books and confirmed the emptiness of the shop with a relieved look. “Oh, good. It's past three in the afternoon! I was afraid I was going to have to resort to putting on the gramophone.”

“Can't have that,” Crowley said earnestly. He threw himself against the nearest pillar so he could lean with optimum sinuousness. He dipped a hand in the bag he was holding and popped a candy in his mouth.

Aziraphale watched him with the same avid curiosity he showed with the appearance of every new comestible. “What are those?”

“Little shop down the way was selling them – licorice, blacker than black. Special family recipe, the woman said.” He held out the bag and waggled it. His sleeve waggled along. “Want some?”

To his mild shock, however, the angel shook his head. “You know, for centuries I thought your side came up with licorice. You go ahead enjoy, though.”

Crowley pulled a faint face and popped another one in his mouth. “Oh, I _will_.”

“And what are you wearing?” Aziraphale finally came closer and gave him a once-over, pale eyebrows climbing as he took in the black knit leisure suit and the jangly jacket. “It's a bit beyond your usual discreet ensembles, isn't it?”

Crowley looked down, unsure which piece was being discussed. He liked the jacket – it had a fringe made of fun little metal bits. “You like? It's called _pop-topping_. Aren't humans clever sometimes?”

He tossed an arm up like he was about to do the fandango, and the entire jacket rattled.

Aziraphale looked mildly overwhelmed; this pleased Crowley.

  


** 2 A.A. **

Crowley was rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen when he found the bag of sweets. They were in a plain brown paper sack and once it was opened, his fingers fumbled at the sight of the small tell-tale black squidges.

Aziraphale was at his desk on the other side of the improbably spacious cottage, bent closely over a thick old tome of a book. He hummed when Crowley said his name, but didn't look up until the sack landed inches from his face, at which point he jerked backwards, bumped against Crowley's chest from where he was leaning menacingly over the chair, saw the paper bag, and froze.

“Angel,” Crowley said lowly in his ear. “What is this?”

He lifted his chin. “You know what it is.”

He wasn't even denying it! Crowley rotated and darted down so he was kneeling next to the chair in full interrogation mode. “How? That shop closed in the 90s. It's a luxury co-work space now.”

Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat and gave him a stern look. “Really, Crowley. You know how long I've been on that street. You think I couldn't track the family down and get the recipe?”

“No – I mean, yes. But why?”

Aziraphale was baffled. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why would you go to all that bother?”

“Well – I knew you liked them specially.”

Crowley was still poised tensely on his knees. The hardwood of the study was very unforgiving, which reminded him he still hadn't tracked down the beautiful Bessarabian rug Aziraphale had noticed in the Winter Palace during the Bolshevik Revolution.

“Is this a bribe?” he asked.

“No?” Aziraphale thought about it a second and added, “But I would like it if you could be a little nicer to the snake plant in the library. I've had it for many years, you know, and it doesn't do well with your usual methods of encouragement.”

Crowley barely heard him, as he was still working out the hidden meaning of the licorice. “Did you owe me for something?”

“You're being very odd,” Aziraphale informed him. He extended two fingers and shoved the paper bag off the desk. It landed in Crowley's lap. “Go eat your disgusting demonic candy and let me read in peace, will you.”

Crowley suppressed the confused expression that wanted to make its way out into the world. He summoned every ounce of lingering hellish spite straight from the depths of Pandæmonium itself and said ominously, “Oh, I _will_.”

The quick kiss he dropped on the angel's mouth before stalking off might have spoiled the fiendish effect. But who was to say.


End file.
